My mom, bless her heart, is a quilter. She’s taught me her mad skillz — to a certain extent — but she’s still much more advanced than I am in the sense of actually seeing projects through to completion. She makes quilts for new grandnieces and nephews, and even done a few pieces on commission. My favorite that she’s made is the one she put together for my graduation from high school. It’s big enough to be a bedspread, and since she put flannel on the back of it, I often use that way. The pattern is pinwheels on the front piece, and she used all vintage-looking fabrics reminiscent of the 1940s, which were really popular when I was a teenager.

It wasn’t a coincidence that she gave it to me right before I headed across the country for college. She was fine with it, since I was attending her alma mater, and I was at first — until I had a massive meltdown on the first day of freshman orientation. There were a number of things that comforted me — including reruns of “Friends,” since they were the same in both places, after all — but the quilt my mom made for me was one of the best ones.

And now, I’ll just let the poem speak for me. Happy Mother’s Day, you fabulous Angela Petrelli look-alike.

***

Eden

As usual, she began this creation
Behind schedule: a carefully planted
Plot of flannel and cotton,
Received just a little late,

A flowing checkerboard
Of rose and bluebell and lilac.
Golden pinwheels twirl sun spots
Skittering and dancing across its surface.

Cut and basted, stitched and batted –
She labored over this fabric,
Embossing it with daisies
Stemming from white thread.

At bedtime I slip under this garden
Of blooms. Even though I’m so far
From home, she still manages to
Keep me safe and warm.

Wherever you are, I hope 2010 is your best one yet!

***

Eden

As usual, she began this creation
Behind schedule: a carefully planted
Plot of flannel and cotton,
Received just a little late,

A flowing checkerboard
Of rose and bluebell and lilac.
Golden pinwheels twirl sun spots
Skittering and dancing across its surface.

Cut and basted, stitched and batted -
She labored over this fabric,
Embossing it with daisies
Stemming from white thread.

At bedtime I slip under this garden
Of blooms. Even though I’m so far
From home, she still manages to
Keep me safe and warm.

Migraine

Sometimes I sneak up behind you
As you’re bent over the computer screen,
Or I crawl up your sheets
While you’re still asleep.

I ignite the embers behind your eyes –
They burn in protest.
I send waves of red hot blood
Coursing through your brain
So hard you can hear the
thump-thump.

Oh, does that hurt?

So you think you can banish me
With chemicals and pills?
Boy, have you got a lot to learn.

I make your stomach convulse and churn.
You hold your own hand to your forehead
So long you can’t stand
The smell of your own skin.
And that stale Gatorade taste in your mouth?
Quite bothersome as well, I would think.

What did I tell you?

You lie prone on your bed
Cursing my existence,
Wishing that your own body
Would listen to you for once.
It’s too bad you haven’t figured it out yet.
Close your eyes and I’ll just melt away.

So these two poems seem appropriate to share today. The first was inspired by Thanksgiving travel during my college era, and the second by the woman who took me in for Thanksgiving all four of those years…and then some. Her 89th birthday would have been on Tuesday, and this is my first Thanksgiving without her.

(Oh, and a note: The first poem is a form known as a pantoum, in which the repetition is part of the design.)

Stand-By

I know my turn is yet to come –
Waiting for the almighty loudspeaker
As I’m held here in limbo
Gagging on this stale coffee smell.

Waiting for the almighty loudspeaker,
We all squirm in these fake leather chairs;
Gagging on this stale coffee smell,
Sneaking sideways glances at each other.

We all squirm in these fake leather chairs
As a couple argue over their son’s head,
Sneaking sideways glances at each other,
Still bickering over what “family vacation” means.

As a couple argue over their son’s head,
An older woman thumbs a magazine –
Still bickering over what “family vacation” means!
Overachievers concentrate on their calculators

And an older woman thumbs a magazine.
In front of a Thanksgiving reunion,
Overachievers concentrate on their calculators
As weary travelers are welcomed home.

In front of a Thanksgiving reunion,
I yearn to hear my own name called
As weary travelers are welcomed home
With hugs and tears freely flowing.

I yearn to hear my own name called
As I’m held here in limbo –
With hugs and tears freely flowing,
I know my turn is yet to come.

***

Grandmother, 1941

Your crackling knees and papery skin belie
this youthful figure carelessly jitterbugging
the afternoon away as attack planes sit idling
across an ocean. Your hips, slim before they bore
five children, shimmy and shake as I flip
through these black pages. Your bright eyes
adore the photographer, your future husband,
who had to go perform his patriotic duty before
you could actually marry. Your curly brown hair
and toothy smile reflect me like a mirror,
our faces echoing across the decades as we sit
laughing together, reliving the life that led to me.